


We Were Not

by WithCadence



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:18:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithCadence/pseuds/WithCadence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve tries to help Bucky recover some memories. Bucky ends up revealing something Steve had not expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were Not

**Author's Note:**

> After I posted two other Stucky-ish fics, someone requested on tumblr that I write some "actual" Stucky. This is what I came up with. It’s hard for me to ship something without thinking of how their relationship came about. Like, I can’t just jump into something and be like “yes they are holding hands and now they are cuddling it is great.” I always have to think about how their relationship started. So for their request, I give you my personal take on Stucky’s origins. I’m not too crazy about this fic, but I hope you enjoy! CC welcome and appreciated. :)

Steve thought he was being clever. That his methods were furtive and efficient. He didn’t want Bucky to know that he was trying to jog his memory, that the casual mentionings of things from their past weren’t casual at all and served a specific purpose. _The use of familiar stimuli has been proven to be extremely effective in the recollection of both long and short-term memories._ Steve had read, so it was never an accident when big band numbers from Glenn Miller or Benny Goodman came on “shuffle” on Steve’s iPod in the car.

Bucky knew. Of course Bucky knew. He didn’t mind. He did realize that it was in fact, helping. Somewhat. He could have told Steve that he didn’t have to act as if everything was coincidental, but somehow Bucky knew that that would hurt his pride. So he played along. And so he wasn’t surprised when Steve came back one night, waving a small disc case in his hand.

“Look what Sam lent me.” He tossed the case to Bucky, who was seated on the couch. Bucky caught it and turned it over in his hands. A blank DVD, with black scrawl, _Scarface (1932)._ Bucky smirked, fought the urge to respond _You mean, look what you spent hours in the rain trying to hunt down?_

“Cool.” he responded, tossing the disc back to Steve, who too effortlessly snatched it out of the air.

“I was thinking a movie night.” Steve suggested, shrugging off his jacket, soaked from the rain, and hanging it on the wall. “If you’re up for it.”

Bucky scoffed, gesturing to the t-shirt and sweatpants he was wearing. “Do I look like I have anything better to do?”

“No, you definitely don’t. Plus it’s terrible outside.”

Bucky glanced out the window. The storm hadn’t let up all day, and now thick black clouds cast ugly shadows everywhere, small patches of moonlight illuminated the tops of trees, whipping around in the fierce winds. He nodded. “Movie night. Definitely.”

Steve walked into his bedroom to change out of his damp and uncomfortable clothes, and tried not to act embarrassed when he walked back into the living room and Bucky laughed at his faded red sweatpants and blue v-neck, asking if he had “literally any piece of clothing” that wasn’t “America-themed.” Before Steve could protest, insisting that he did in fact own other clothes, lots of neutral colors thank you very much, an unexpected clap of thunder struck the night, accompanying wind shaking the windows. Both men jumped violently. Steve’s hands darted to protect his head, Bucky recoiled in on himself.

“Jesus Christ…” Steve exhaled after the tension had waned, rubbing a hand over his face. Bucky slowly relaxed as well, unclenching his fists and sinking further into the couch.

“You’d think that after everything…” an uneasy attempt at a reassuring smile crept its way onto Bucky’s face. “… shit like that wouldn’t scare us.”

“Yeah, you’d think.” Steve’s voice was stale. He stared at Bucky, prepared, waiting for a bad sign, a flicker of former insanity, something that normally came about during startled times like these. Nothing came, so he continued. “You should hear the stories of some of the guys that came back from Vietnam.” He meandered over to the couch. Plopped down next to Bucky. “But we’re okay.”

He wanted to be reassuring. Bucky had been good recently. Better than good. He was recalling more and more as each day passed, returning surely to himself. Steve wasn’t about to let a storm ruin their progress. He stared at the disc that he had left on the coffee table in front of them. Frowned at it. “Maybe nothing with guns tonight, ok?”

Bucky put his hands up in the air in mock surrender. “Sounds good to me.”

The rain grew stronger. Battering the windows in loud banging taps. The street was lit momentarily by lightning, then seconds later, a softer, rolling rumble that sounded miles away. Neither jumped this time. Both sat, staring out the window, listening to the sound of the deafening rain.

“Remember the first time we saw that?” Steve asked, suddenly. Bucky knew that what he had come to call “the remember game” would start at any moment. He turned to Steve, face blank. Shook his head slightly.

“We were 12 or 13? I think.” Steve nodded as he spoke. “It was raining, kind of like this. We had to sneak in the back. My mom got mad at us and called your aunt.” Between every sentence he paused, waiting for Bucky to jump in, finish the memory.

He didn’t.

He was trying. He genuinely was trying. He closed his eyes and pictured everything that Steve said. Certain things flashed behind his eyelids. Snippets. A green door with a rusted brown handle. His chest pounding as they ducked around a corner. The humor when an enormously tall man sat in front of Steve. His heart falling into his stomach when they exited the theater and Steve’s mother was standing there, waiting.

“Yeah…” Slowly. Bucky opened his eyes, brow furrowed, and nodded. “I thought your mom was gonna kill us.”

“Yeah.” Steve was smiling, doing everything he could not to look too excited that Bucky was remembering – faster than usual. “She almost did.” Bucky laughed.

“What else do you remember?” Steve asked, forgoing subtlety. Bucky pursed his lips. Looked towards the floor.

“I don’t… I don’t know. That’s it, mostly.”

Steve nodded silently, hearing Bucky but not wanting to hear him. ”Do you remember the movie?” 

Bucky shook his head. A flat, “No.”

“Oh.” Steve’s voice momentarily betrayed his casual demeanor and nothing but disappointment filled the quiet syllable. “No – it’s –” He tried desperately to correct himself. Conceal his mild frustration. “It’s fine. That’s good. You don’t have to remember –”

“Steve.” Bucky interrupted with an exasperated sigh. “This isn’t going to work like you want it to.” He waited for Steve to reply. Steve didn’t. “It’s not so simple. You can’t just tell stories and expect them to come back to me.” His voice grew louder, more anxious. “I don’t remember them. I don’t. I can see them, and they’re in my head, but they’re like movies. Like I’m watching a scene. I’m above them, but I’m not in them.”

He stopped. Hung his head. “All I can remember are feelings. That’s it. That’s all that feels real to me. And I know you’re trying to help, with the movies, and the stories, and the music but…” He looked up at Steve, met his gaze. Steve stared back at him with soft and plaintive eyes. He broke his gaze away immediately, suddenly guilty, stared towards the floor. “…I’m sorry.”

“No, Buck.” Steve reached out, placed his hand on top of Bucky’s forearm. It was cold. He squeezed it gently. “It’s fine. Don’t apologize, I…” He closed his eyes. “ _I’m_ sorry. Ok? I thought it would be helpful but… you’re right. It’s your brain and I’m sure the last thing you want is to have another person messing around with it. We’ll do this however you want to do it.”

Bucky nodded, still biting down on his bottom lip, eyes still fixed on a tiny spot on the floor. Steve kept his hand on Bucky’s arm.

The silences between them had been growing more frequent, but more comfortable. Neither protested nor felt the slightest bit uneasy when quiet settled over them like a blanket, complacent on the sofa with the sound of the howling wind circling the building.

“So… feelings?” Steve removed his hand. Scratched his nose with it. “You remember feelings? Not memories?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “I thought you just said you were done experimenting-“

“No, this is not an experiment.” Steve insisted, holding up his hands. “I’m curious. I’m honestly curious.”

Bucky breathed out, slowly. Tucked a strand of stray hair behind his ear. “Uh, yeah. More than anything I remember… how I felt, you know? Rather than specific events.”

Steve silently willed him to go on. He did.

“I mean…” he tilted his head as if trying to recall something. “I remember feeling worried. All the time.” A smile slipped onto his face. “God, I worried so _much_ about you.” He laughed. Steve smiled as well. “Like maybe a little too much. Even after you turned into a giant I was always worried you were going to do something stupid like fall and hurt yourself. 

“Wow.” Steve laughed too now. “You really thought a lot of me, huh?”

“Shut up.” Bucky punched him lightly. Kind of.

“Ow!”

“Oh – shit, sorry.” 

Both had dissolved into childish laughter. Steve gripped his bicep where Bucky’s fist had made contact, his shoulders shaking with each laugh. Bucky closed his eyes and laughed into his hand.

“Okay, let’s see…” Bucky rested his head on the back of the couch, stared at the ceiling as the laughter slowly left him. Then the smile. “I remember feeling a lot of things about you.” Steve, still caught up in the unexpected humor of the moment, did not notice the sudden tone change in Bucky’s voice. He listened earnestly.

“Most of everything I remember feeling has something to do with you, actually…” Bucky moved his arm, wrung his hands together. “At least, the most prominent stuff.” His voice was now quiet. Steve couldn’t not notice. His brow furrowed, concerned. Yet he said nothing, stared at Bucky, waiting for him to continue. Bucky turned to look at him.

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know, Buck.” Both were near whispering.

Bucky’s eyes locked onto Steve’s. Gray and confused.

“Were… were we in love?”

Steve’s mouth went dry. He stared back at Bucky. Did not break away. Bucky continued.

“It… it feels like we were.” He paused. “It just… it feels like it was real. That’s the only thing I’m certain of.” Another pause. “We were, weren’t we?” 

Steve wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Bucky that they hadn’t, in fact, been in love. That all they were was best friends and what Bucky was remembering was probably him being secretly in love – something that he knew nothing about until right now, and that he was sorry but no. That Bucky’s one solid memory was based on nothing. Wanted to explain, _We were not in love back then. And I’m sorry._

But he didn’t. Static filled his ears and drowned out the sound of the rain. Bucky stared. Waited.

Steve had no idea what compelled him to do what he did next. He just did it. He surrendered control of his body to some unseen force and did not question why. 

He leaned forward. Very, very slowly. Dropping his gaze from Bucky’s eyes to his mouth. Pressed their foreheads together. Kissed him.

Bucky’s lips were rough and chapped against Steve’s, gently at first. Steve tilted his head to one side and Bucky moved in closer, pressing their noses together and inhaling sharply. Steve did not protest. Felt the remnants of Bucky’s stubble scratch into his cheek. Moved his hand to the side of Bucky’s face and held it, strands of Bucky’s hair falling onto his fingers. Bucky’s arm reached up, grabbed the side of Steve’s neck, the pads of his fingers pressing hard into Steve’s skin. 

They broke apart, momentarily, to look at each other, to breathe. Then Bucky moved forward, pressing his lips against Steve’s with a force that he barely knew he possessed. He gripped both sides of Steve’s face, pulled him closer. Steve leaned into it, forgetting entirely the absurdity of the situation. He breathed through his nose, one hand moving to Bucky’s waist, the other running through his hair.

Bucky tasted like coffee. Steve tasted like rain. 

They broke apart once more, and this time when Bucky moved forward it was not to kiss Steve but to envelop him. He wrapped his arms around Steve’s shoulders, buried his face in his neck, and let himself go slack. Steve slipped his arms around Bucky’s waist and held him, tightly, one hand moving upward to grip the back of Bucky’s neck. They stayed like that, unmoving except for the rise and fall of both their chests, for what felt days. In his arms Steve felt the tiny vibrations of trembles emanating from Bucky. His neck felt damp and he realized that Bucky was crying. He pulled him closer. 

Neither spoke. Bucky and Steve clung to each other until somehow Bucky fell asleep lying on the couch with his head in Steve’s lap. Steve rested his arm on top of Bucky and sat, wide-awake, staring out the window while Bucky slept. He resolved to tell him, in the morning. _We were not in love back then, and I’m sorry._ He went over the words again and again in his head and every time they felt more and more foreign. Something was wrong with them. Something was missing. Still. He had to. It wasn’t right to keep that from Bucky.

In the morning, he woke Bucky with a kiss. Rehearsed the conversation in his head. Bucky went to change and brush his teeth and Steve worked up the courage to confront him. _We were not in love back then, and I’m sorry._ The words felt wrong. He waited for Bucky in the living room, and said nothing when Bucky came out, receptively tilting his head when Bucky bent down to kiss him on the cheek. That did not feel wrong. Nor did it feel wrong when he pressed his lips to the back of Bucky’s neck when Bucky put on a pot of coffee. Or later in the day when they kissed on the couch again, deeper, hungrier. Or a few days after, when Steve explored Bucky’s neck, chest, and stomach with his lips, when they laid together in bed, Bucky tucked under his arm, breathing slowly.

Steve closed his eyes, rubbed circles into the back of Bucky’s hand with his thumb. The words still rang in his ears. _We were not in love back then._ Steve accepted them. They were right. But they didn’t matter. He hadn’t loved Bucky back then, that was true. But he would make up for the time they hadn’t been in love. Give Bucky back all of the years he had kept himself hidden. _We were not in love back then. And I’m sorry._

 _But we are now._ Steve pressed a kiss to the side of Bucky’s forehead.

“Love you, Buck.”

“Love you too, Steve.”


End file.
